


You’re So Stupid

by StilesBastille24



Series: Ready, Steady, Go! [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie doesn’t die because that’s not acceptable, Eddie is recovering in Derry, M/M, R+E bickering, Richie / Eddie centric, Richie POV, adult Eddie and Richie get together, post - it 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 18:44:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StilesBastille24/pseuds/StilesBastille24
Summary: “Hey,” Richie greets brightly.Eddie looks over, one hand reaching for the remote to turn off the tv. “They said their letting me out today,” he says, eyes narrowed as he peers over Richie’s shoulder. “You know, Derry’s hospital doesn’t even make the rank of top hospitals in Maine? I’ll be lucky if I’m not back in here from a fucking blood infection in two days.” He braces both of his palms against the mattress and tries to push himself further upright.Richie swoops in before something horrific like split stitches can occur. “Cool it, Evel Knievel, or your going to be bleeding all over these perfectly white sheets, and then they’ll definitely think twice about letting you out of here.”





	You’re So Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Brendan Maclean because it’s just a total Reddie song to me. 
> 
> I love Richie and Eddie as separate characters and as the bombass power couple they are. And apparently, I’m extra-fond of their adult selves. So I had a lot of feelings and I put them in this. Hopefully, someone else out there will enjoy this.

Richie Tozier paces to the left, then to the right of Eddie Kaspbrak’s hospital room. He’s wavering about whether or not to go inside. Which is interesting, really because for someone as impulsive as Richie, hesitation of any kind is sort of a new and unusual thing. 

The nurse at the Nurse’s Station is eyeing Richie critically, as if she knows, just by looking at him in his Hawaiian shirt, that he’s the most likely visitor to cause trouble. Not without due cause. Richie did, after all, fall asleep in the uncomfortable plastic chair outside Eddie’s room when his friend was first admitted and consequently fall out of said chair and topple said chair to the ground. But for fuck’s sake. Richie and the Losers’ Club had just survived and killed a demonic killer clown spider and watched one of their best friend’s almost die. So give him a fucking break. 

Richie’s the only one here today. He had offered to be the one to pick up Eddie on the day of his discharge. Apparently one week with an ID bracelet around your wrist and several thousand stitches, staples, and a minor surgery to your abdomen was all you needed to survive an attack by a demonic killer clown spider. 

That’s partially why Richie is wavering outside Eddie’s room. Because what if Eddie is expecting Myra to pick him up? You know, his wife? The one that the Losers’ Club had unanimously voted not to inform about Eddie’s injury. The one that would in all likelihood lock Eddie in a padded cell for the rest of his life if she found out he had almost died. The one Richie hates on instinct alone, just for being married to Eddie. 

It worked in the Losers favor that Eddie, for reasons known only to himself, didn’t have Myra listed as an emergency contact or next of kin. He had an aunt marked down. Richie imagined Eddie had penned her in during the short interm between his own mother dying and marrying her reincarnat. It was additionally beneficial that this aunt had since changed her phone number and was no longer accessible by the number listed. 

So while Eddie was under the harsh glare of surgery room fluorescents, and most of the other Losers were being dragged off to be checked for their own concussions and gashes, Richie had claimed to be Eddie’s cousin. Twice removed. Like all respectable fake cousins are. It had gone over swimmingly, with Derry’s hospital in an uproar over the arrival of the seven disheveled, bleeding, and disgusting smelling Losers. 

But now the moment of truth has arrived, and Richie is wavering. He peeks his head around the doorway of Eddie’s room. His best friend sits with his hands neatly held in his lap, his eyes fixed on the out of view television, and his bed leaned back at an angle to not disturb the patchwork quilt that is currently his abdomen. He looks so small in the white hospital bed, small like he was when they were kids. And he looks alone. 

Which is what decides it for Richie. Eddie is not alone and he never fucking will be again, if Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier has anything to say about it. 

“Hey,” he greets brightly, sliding around the edge of the door and into the room. 

Eddie looks over, one hand reaching for the remote to turn off the tv. “They said they’re letting me out today,” he says, eyes narrowed as he peers over Richie’s shoulder. “You know, Derry’s hospital doesn’t even make the rank of top hospitals in Maine? I’ll be lucky if I’m not back in here from a fucking blood infection in two days.” 

A smirk tugs at the corner of Richie’s mouth. “Jesus, Eddie. You’re supposed to be resting up so that your body can transition from gore fest to PG-13 acceptable, not psyching yourself out about hospital ratings.”

“Risk Analyst,” Eddie says vehemently. “It’s a statistically proven fact that every one in thirty-one hospital patients gets at least one healthcare associated infection. One in thirty-one patients, Richie! Do you know how many people are on this floor alone?”

Richie rolls his eyes, feeling his hesitation over having entered the room disappear. Eddie will always be Eddie. Not age nor demonic killer clown spider can ever change that. “Then, Eds, let’s bust you out of this joint.”

“Eddie,” Eddie corrects with annoyance. He braces both of his palms against the mattress and tries to push himself further upright.

Richie swoops in before something horrific like split stitches can occur, and curves an arm around Eddie, left hand grasping Eddie’s. “Cool it, Evel Knievel, or you’re going to be bleeding all over these perfectly white sheets, and then they’ll definitely think twice about letting you out of here.”

Eddie accepts Richie’s help, leaning his weight against him as Richie guides him slowly to his feet. Richie can vividly remember Mike picking Eddie up and setting him into the basket of his bike when Eddie’s arm was broken. It’s not much different now. Richie figures he could carry Eddie out of here without breaking a sweat, if Eddie didn’t punch him in the head first for trying.

“Hospitals are my worst nightmare,” Eddie continues, unabated. “It’s a slight on Pennywise that he wasn’t capable of turning himself into a hospital ward for infectious diseases. I would have dropped dead on the spot.” 

They make a three-legged walk towards the door to his room, Richie supporting most of Eddie’s weight. “Aren’t they supposed to give you a wheelchair or something?” Richie questions, trying to angle them through the doorway. 

“Do you even realize that the US does not have national standards of cleanliness guidelines? We are at the mercy of the hospital, Richie, and the hospital,” he gives an angered laugh, “the hospital only cares about its bottom line.”

“You are just a real ball of sunshine today, you know that, Eds?” Richie marvels at Eddie’s ability to store all of this useless and depressing information in his brain for even the slight possibility it might one day come to fruition. “Hey! Nurse?” Richie calls out, waving a frantic hand at the judgmental nurse still at the Nurse’s Station. “Any way we can get the walking wounded a wheelchair?”

“What on earth are you doing?” the nurse shouts, abruptly jumping to her feet. “You can’t just kidnap people out of this hospital!”

“Kidnap?” Richie’s eyes widened. “He’s being discharged.”

Eddie turns slowly and levels a look at Richie. “Did you sign me out first?”

~*~*~

Once they’ve made it to Richie’s car, a more modest and reasonable Mazda 6, Eddie immediately begins fidgeting in his seat. “Did you bring me any of my stuff?”

Richie reaches into the back seat and hands him a black fanny pack. “I found it in your suitcase. It worries me, Eds, that you’re still doing the fanny pack thing but the nineties are far in the rear view mirror.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Eddie mumbles, preoccupied with digging through his fanny pack. He pulls out a small container of Lysol and immediately commences spraying the ever living shit out of the rental car.

“Fuck! My eyes!” Richie shouts, covering his glasses with one hand and trying to apprehend the spray can from Eddie with the other. 

“Disinfectant!” Eddie proclaims. “Do you even know how many germs incubate in this upholstery?”

“I pay a fucking cleaning fee, don’t I?” Richie argues as his right hand is doused with cleaning spray. 

“Cleaning fee!” Eddie’s voice shoots up an octave. “Don’t be stupid, Richie. They fucking vacuum your car and call it a day. They don’t give a shit if there is mildew slowly growing into mold underneath your seat. They don’t bleach down the surfaces in here.”

At last, Richie manages to get his hand around the metal of the can and rip it away from Eddie. “Yeah, well, now we’re going to asphyxiate from cleaning agents, and personally, I would have preferred getting mono from licking the steering wheel over having my lungs burned out by Lysol.” 

He takes his hand off his glasses and looks over at his passenger. Eddie is relaxed against the seat, eyeing the car critically as if he has special germ vision that will allow him to detect any malicious bacteria that escaped the bleach campaign. It makes something flutter in Richie’s chest. He quickly shifts his attention to getting the car started and getting them back to the Inn.

“Are you the only one left, or?” Eddie leaves his question hanging. 

“We thought it would be a bit much if seven grown adults showed up to see one other grown adult discharged.” Richie follows the now familiar signs that guide him out of the hospital parking garage. 

Eddie nods at this. “I know I lost my phone in the sewers, and you’re the one picking me up, so I’m assuming no one thought to tell Myra I almost died?” 

“Well,” Richie hesitates again. It seems the only person he feels cautious around is Eddie. “We got to talking about your mom and how she reacted after your arm got broken. And none of us know Myra nearly as well as we knew Mrs. K so we weren’t sure we were prepared for that kind of wrath and -“

“Forget it,” Eddie cuts him off. “I don’t want her to know about this.” His jaw clenches and he turns to look out the window. 

Richie taps his fingers against the steering wheel as they wait for the parking gate to lift and free them. “Okay. Because that’s not the first sign of marital problems.” 

Honestly, Richie knows that everything he thinks comes spilling out of his mouth unless he puts some serious effort into keeping his lips zipped. And it’s given him nothing but trouble since he was two and learned how to talk. He can’t filter out what’s going to upset someone and what’s going to make them laugh. And mostly he doesn’t care, because Richie isn’t exactly a people person at forty. He’s more of a shut the fuck up and leave me alone person. 

Somehow he has a stand up routine that’s landed him actual gigs. He’d started out as a radio host which shifted into a podcast - when that became a thing - and now, somehow, he’s small time famous. He’s pretty sure this is what he dreamed of as a kid. Well, kind of, except without other people writing the jokes he tells. And with his stupid voices and crude humor being the reason people laugh. 

But that’s neither here nor there. What he just said to Eddie was rude, even if it’s true, and he’s supposed to be trying to make Eddie feel better after almost being dinner for a demonic killer clown spider. Instead, he says the first dumbass thing that pops into his head. 

Except, Eddie isn’t throwing a hissy fit. Instead, unbelievably, he’s saying, “No, the first sign of marital problems is calling your wife mommy.”

“You didn’t!” Richie gasps, horrified and thrilled at the same time. 

“I did,” Eddie counters. He glances at Richie from the side of his eyes. 

“Well, I mean, it could be a kink. You know, a sexual kink. A, handcuff me and let me call you mommy, kink,” Richie rationalizes. 

Eddie turns to look at him fully, staring at Richie like he’s grown two heads. “I do not have a fucking mommy kink, you asshole!” 

Richie shrugs. “You’re the one calling your wife mommy.” 

“That’s not - How could you think - I should never have -“ Eddie splutters angrily and Riche laughs, flicking on his blinker to make a left out of the hospital.

~*~*~

Back at the Inn, the Losers have set up a welcome home banner in the bar of the Inn. The lady who runs it had charged them extra to use the room, calling it a private party, even though the seven of them make up the entire occupancy of the Inn. Richie thinks it’s probably just pay back for leaving one of her bathrooms smeared in unexplained blood.

Eddie smiles, looking honestly pleased and surprised. Richie notices he’s keeping his smile to a dim one since he’s still got stitches in his cheek from being stabbed. “Thanks, guys,” he says, accepting each hug as it comes. 

Richie hasn’t hugged Eddie yet, so he lets himself be last in line before carefully wrapping his arms around his best friend. “I think Pennywise did something worse than nearly kill you,” he says quietly, so only Eddie can hear him. 

“What?” There’s a tremor of fear in the question. 

“Think he turned your 5’9” into 5’6”.” 

“Fuck you!” Eddie cries, pushing away from Richie and then nervously checking their reflections in the mirror above the bar. 

Richie laughs, pushing his hand against the top of Eddie’s head. “Look at that, Eddie, I’ve got a good seven inches on you, easy. Pennywise must have had shrink ray powers in those claws.”

“You fucking, asshole!” Eddie claws his way out from under Richie’s arm. “It’s four inches at best and in my work shoes it’s only three.”

“Are you - Are you saying you wear lifts?” Richie asks, feeling like it’s Christmas come early. Eddie’s alive and here Richie is, getting to rib the shit out of him.

“Oh, Eddie,” Bev says consolingly. “You look good, proportional.”

“Is that a jab at my hands! Because they are not that small!” Eddie’s voice has gone shrill and it’s clear he needs a rest. Driving back from the hospital, arguing with Richie the whole time had to have been exhausting, Richie thinks. 

He guides Eddie toward the easy chair in the corner of the room and pushes him gently into it. “Relax, Eduardo,” he says, using his best Voice. “Kick your heels up and let the Losers bring you some sparkling water or whatever other shitty thing you drink.”

The others crowd around Eddie, taking up spots on the couch and the arm chairs. Richie settles for sitting on the floor by Eddie’s feet. They’re all back together, with Stanley in spirit. It’s nothing Richie would have thought possible when he first stepped foot in Derry again.

~*~*~

Eddie has a strict list from the doctors about what he can eat and drink for the next three weeks while he heals up. Richie is more than happy to go out to the Red Apple, the local grocer, and pick up everything for him. He leaves Eddie in the competent care of Bill. Bev rides passenger with Richie.

She has one hand out the window, a cigarette between her fingers. Her eyes are lost in thought, bad thoughts, from the downward turn of her mouth. Richie bumps his elbow into hers. 

“Hey, chin up, Bev. You’re world famous and Greta Keene is still working at her dad’s pharmacy blowing bubbles and popping her gum.” 

She looks over at him, the faint hint of a smile hiding at the corner of her mouth. “Is she really?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Richie crosses his heart with his left index finger. “Eddie saw her there when he went to go pick up some asthma medicine.” 

“Jesus.” Bev lets out a weak laugh. “I wish I could tell my thirteen year old self that. Fuck. I hated her.” 

“As much as Henry Bowers? Because, as shocking as killing another person was, it’s not exactly like I regret it.” And Richie is being completely honest. 

In the weird way that things work in Derry, Henry’s split open head has been chalked up to an unexplained murder of a pretty shitty human being. The case is bound to spend the rest of its life on the cold case shelf. It seems the police aren’t all that interested in finding the murderer of a man who murdered one of their own twenty-seven years ago. Especially when the one of their own was also said murderer’s father. 

“You shouldn’t,” Beverly says right away. “He was insane, he tried to kill Eddie, and he was trying to kill Mike when you stopped him. Some people - they don’t deserve second chances.” 

Richie can tell by her voice she is speaking from personal experience. So he ventures to say one of the things he forced himself to keep behind his lips. “What happened to your arm, Bev? Because that is the only bruise you didn’t get from Derry.”

Her cheeks go red, the same way they did when they were kids and Beverly got caught in a lie. “Do you think that Derry changed us? That what we went through and then forgetting all of it, do you think that messed us up even more than we were to begin with?”

“Hell yeah,” Richie says empathetically. “You left the autumn after it happened, and I only stuck around for a short while longer. And once you leave, the forgetting starts, and once it starts, well - “ he breaks off. 

They’re stopped at the corner of Harris Avenue, only a block away from Red Apple. Derry is still so backwater that it’s not a stop light holding them up, but rather a stop sign. An older woman is tottering slowly across the white crosswalk lines, her furious gaze stuck on the Mazda, like she expects at any moment for Richie to speed out and purposefully run her over. 

“I keep thinking about that saying,” Beverly says, her voice pitched quiet and reflective. “The one about how those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

“Don’t go making Bill’s knees weak with your literary quotes, Beverly. He’s a married man now,” Richie teases, a defense mechanism against the chills running up his arms. 

“Beep beep, Richie,” Beverly says. 

“Sorry. I just -“

“Can’t keep your mouth shut, I know.” The words are fond though. She sighs, her head resting back against the seat. “I bashed my dad’s head in with a porcelain toilet lid. He bled to death on the bathroom floor. They ruled that it must have been Henry Bowers out on his mad assault against his dad and maybe the kids he bullied. I went off to live with my aunt. And that’s when things started to get fuzzy.” 

She looks over to see if he’s listening, and Richie is all ears. None of the Losers have really had time to catch up. Catch up on the nitty-gritty shit that is the majority of life. So he’s listening like there won’t be a second chance, because for all Richie knows, as soon as they leave Derry they’ll forget all of this for a second time. 

“My aunt and I, we never talked about my dad. She was my mom’s sister and she hated my dad. She knew about what he had done to her and she suspected what he might have been like with me. So we didn’t talk about him. And after a while, I couldn’t remember either. I knew he had done, ‘bad things.’” Bev makes the air quotes with her fingers. “But I didn’t have the details to go with it. And we didn’t talk about him, so slowly, I came to the disjointed memory that I had left, but he hadn’t. That he stayed and I went off to live my aunt. I thought - Richie, I thought the bastard was still alive,” the words come out on a choked gasp. 

They’re idlying in the parking lot of Red Apple now and Richie slams the car into park. He wraps his arms around Beverly’s shoulders and pulls her against his chest. “It’s not your fault, Bev. What happened to us, Pennywise did that. He stole our memories and -“

“He made us weak,” Beverly says, her voice muted with tears. “He stole our memories and made us weak. I didn’t remember my dad. I didn’t remember just how awful he was. Or that I had the courage, at thirteen, to stand up to him. To tell him no. To bash his head in and end his abuse. I - I didn’t remember - and so, I married someone exactly like him.” 

Her hands clutch at his shirt, as she tips her head against his shoulder and cries. Richie rests his cheek against the top of her head, hushing her softly. He rubs her back, wishing he could take away her sadness. Her feelings of helplessness and regret.

Richie knows those feelings well. He has lived with them all his life. If there was ever a time to confess his “secret” to confess the part of him he has never shared with anyone else, it would be now. But those two complex words stayed locked behind his lips. There’s someone else those two words are meant for. 

“Hey,” Richie says, tugging lightly on Beverly’s bright hair. “How about I pick you up some wine and Chunky-Monkey ice cream? They don’t sound like they go together, but really, that’s just snob bitches being haters.” 

Beverly sniffles out a laugh. She leans back, gazing up at Richie. “I love you, Trashmouth.” She presses a small kiss to the side of his mouth.

Richie kisses her forehead in return. “I love you too, Molly Ringwald.”

She socks him hard in the shoulder, but she’s smiling again, so it’s worth it. And for someone who looks so dainty, Beverly really knows how to land a punch.

~*~*~

Eddie is barely awake in Richie’s room. Eddie’s room is a no-go zone for the Losers because of Henry Bowers knife and Eddie’s face. Richie’s got a rollaway bed that he’ll be calling home for tonight and however long after they stay in Derry before going their separate ways.

“Eddie-Spaghetti?” Richie calls, knocking on the partially open door. 

“Asshole,” Eddie grouses tiredly. 

Richie takes it as an open invitation and wheels in his rolling tray with chicken broth, ice chips, and lukewarm water. “Seriously, I should spit in your soup for that.”

Eddie’s grey complexion brightens at the sight of his dinner. “Thank fuck. If I had to toss one more jell-o into the bed pan, I was going to be taken for blood tests over my freakishly red piss.”

“Okay,” Richie says slowly. “And you were tossing out the world’s only edible hospital food because?” 

“Red-40 contains compounds linked to cancer, learning impairments, allergies, and aggression. But I bet you’re out there just scarfing down all the fucking Red-40 you can. No wonder you were such a pain in the ass as a kid!” Eddie reaches out eagerly for the soup. 

Richie rolls the cart up to the side of the bed so Eddie can just move to the edge and eat it without having to twist. The doctors and nurses were very adamant that Eddie refrain from twisting and turning until he is recovered. “Mhm, I’ve got a Mountain Dew 2 liter in my fridge that is actually just 2 liters of Red-40. I can’t make it day without pounding down a glass or two of the stuff.”

“You’re kidding. I know your kidding. But I’m still not okay with it.” Eddie shakes his head vehemently, staring at Richie warily. “You still eat Kraft Mac and Cheese too, don’t you?”

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Richie quips. He takes a seat at the small desk provided in the room, watching Eddie take a tentative sip of his soup. 

“Phthalates!” Eddie announces. “Known to cause genital defects, learning problems, and behavioral issues. That’s what you’ve been eating for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” He eats another spoonful of soup. 

“No wonder my dick’s so huge.” Richie grins mischievously at his best friend, watching Eddie’s eyes grow wide in annoyed disbelief. 

Eddie sets down his spoon and regards his soup with far too much suspicion. “Where did this come from? Did you pour it out of a box or can? What brand is it -“

“Clam down,” Richie says, hands held up in innocence. “I followed the list your doctors gave you and that you approved.”

Eddie settles back a little against the headboard. “Doctors,” he sniffs, “what do they know?”

Richie smiles fondly. “God. You are the world’s worst hypochondriac.” 

“And you’re the world’s worst comic. Evenly matched.” Eddie flicks his eyes from Richie back to his soup. He readily picks up his spoons and dives back into the chicken broth. 

“Ouch, hit me where it hurts,” Richie jokes. “How did you even know about my show in the first place. I thought we weren’t supposed to remember each other.” It was something that had stuck with him since the disastrous Welcome Back to Derry dinner. How Eddie had been so certain and vindicated when Richie said he didn’t write his own material. 

Eddie goes to shrug then winces away from the motion. Richie is half out of his chair, ready to help take care of him. Eddie gives him a calculating look before relaxing against the bed again. Faint embarrassment brushes against Richie’s thoughts. 

“Myra had it on, late night, and somehow I got sucked into watching short stand up clips. Then longer ones. And the whole while, I’m thinking there is no way this asshole is writing these jokes. They weren’t -“ he breaks off. 

“Weren’t what?” Richie prompts when Eddie doesn’t continue. 

Again, Eddie goes for an aborted shrug. “I don’t know. Something didn’t feel quite right. Not that you’re special,” he adds hurriedly. “I’ve got all of Bill’s books on my bookshelf, my coffee table is home to a book on Ben’s architecture, and I watched an entire Lifetime episode on Beverly’s fashion designs. Our memories might have been buried, but they weren’t entirely forgotten.” 

Richie spends a quiet moment thinking of all the fast talking, brown haired guys he had spent the past twenty-seven years eyeing with thinly disguised interest. “Maybe.” 

Eddie pulls a face at him. “Fact.” He eats his soup, his left hand hovering by his abdomen. “I need to drink eight ounces of water with my next pain medication.” 

“I know. You told me like ten times. And I bought that weird water bottle you wanted with the ounces tabulated on the side.” Richie gets up and goes to retrieve said water bottle. 

When he comes back, the water perfectly in line with the 8 ounce mark, Eddie is half asleep, hand barely holding onto the spoon in his soup. Richie sets the water bottle on the rolling tray and gentle touches Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey, Eds, wake up. You’ve got to eat all that gourmet cooking before you pass out for the night.”

Eddie blinks groggily. “Yeah, right.” He spoons up more soup, face drawn and pale. “That broken arm was the worst injury I ever sustained. Actually, my only serious injuries were incurred with you guys. Well, and the fucking clown.”

“I mean, on a scale of 50/50, pretty sure not even 10% of your injury was due to us. Pretty sure it was like 99% the clown’s fault.” Richie sits back on the desk chair, legs sprawled long in front of him, kicking up against the bottom of the bed. 

“At least 30% of that guilt is yours. I wouldn’t have gone into that fucking house in 1989 if you hadn’t done it first. And I wouldn’t have been in the sewer with the clown in 2019 if you hadn’t given me you’re brave little toaster speech.” Eddie spears his spoon in Richie’s direction, eyes narrowed in accusation. 

“You’re a follower, Eds, I’m a leader. Can’t go blaming all your problems on your idol.” 

Eddie flips him off. “Fuck you, man.” But there’s no malice in his words, only a faint amusement. 

The rest of the Losers’ Club is having pizza in the bar room they paid for. Richie had snagged a piece on his way to the Inn’s small kitchen before heating up Eddie’s soup. With the hotel door cracked open, he can hear the faint sounds of chatter and laughter from the first floor. 

Up here, it’s just Eddie and Richie. It’s raining out, a soft patter of drops hitting the window in a soothing manner. Richie clasps his hands in his lap, feeling tiredness creep up on him. Eddie’s starting to waver towards sleep again and Richie figures he better keep him talking so he can take his medication. 

“So, they’ve got a phone here, if you, uh, if you want to call Myra.”

Eddie jerks his head up to look at Richie. “Right.” 

“If you want too,” Richie reiterates, uncomfortable. 

Richie can’t look away from Eddie, caught on the uncertainty in his eyes, that look of trapped panic that he used to get when he’d return home. There’s loyalty in that expression too. The one that made Richie certain all those years ago that as truly awful as Eddie’s mother was, Eddie still loved her. 

“I can call her,” Richie finds himself saying. 

Eddie eyes go wide with surprise. “You. Call my wife?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, warming to the idea. “I’ll call, tell her you had a kind of accident down here and -“

“Richie,” Eddie says flatly. “If you tell Myra that, she’ll be out here on an Red-Eye flight and I don’t . . .” He breaks off, taking another bite of soup. 

“Or . . . We don’t call her. Where does she think you are, anyway?”

“I told her I had to go back to my hometown, but I’ve never talked about Derry. I said they didn’t have reception here.” Eddie twirls his spoon in his soup, making waves in the broth. “I lied. I lied and told her I didn’t know how long I’d be, but I’d call her once I could. She probably thinks I’m dead.”

“You’re not,” Richie says, far more adamantly than the moment calls for. 

Eddie smirks. “Only by a miracle.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, chest feeling suddenly tight. “A miracle. Now come one, Eduardo, finish that fucking soup so you can take your horse pill and fall asleep.”

~*~*~

In the morning, the air is fresh from the rain and the sun is bright overhead. It seems like a shitty day to be stuck inside, so the Losers pile into their mishmash of cars and drive up to the Quarry. Eddie rides shotgun in Richie’s car, with Bill in the backseat. When they get to the Quarry, Bill and Richie help Eddie make it out the rocky cropping. They spread out a blanket and a cheap beach chair that Ben had picked up that morning just for Eddie. Richie makes a big to-do about smearing zinc over Eddie’s cheeks and nose, plopping a floppy sun hat on top as a finale.

“Can’t be too careful about those rays, Eddie-Spaghetti. Wouldn’t want you getting skin cancer out here.” Richie adjusts the hat to a more jaunty angle. 

“Uh-huh, laugh it up, shithead. Nine point five thousand people are diagnosed with skin cancer each day in the US alone,” Eddie critiques. 

“Dude, did you invent WebMD? I mean, that had to be you right?” Richie asks, looking around at the others for their opinions.

“I mean, WebMD is very much the Eddie Kaspbrak version of the internet,” Beverly agrees, grinning. 

“Hey! Hey, fuck all of you! I invested in that company and my stock is doing great, thank you very fucking much!” Eddie huffs, shifting carefully in his chair. 

Beverly lays down on the blanket, resting her head on Ben’s knee. “It’s been very helpful, Eddie,” she says sweetly.

“Yeah, I used it when I first got into architecture and would - “

“Would what?” Billy asks, amused. “Get a splinter from all the wood?”

“I always thought architecture was more about the design, not the construction,” Mike adds. 

“Well it is, but I started by -“

“Even if you didn’t invent it,” Richie says, talking over their other friends, “you at least ghost wrote it, right?” He sits down at Eddie’s feet.

“You’re such a dick,” Eddie complains. “I don’t know why I even talk to you. I couldn’t even remember you a month ago and do you know how peaceful my life was?”

“Not at all? Because you don’t just have a stick up your ass but a whole fucking forest?” 

As he and Eddie bicker, the rest of the Losers drift into their own conversation. Bev and Ben are making goo-goo eyes at each other. Bill and Mike are talking about where Bill’s book endings have gone wrong and how to have endings that don’t suck. Richie can hear them like peaceful background ambience. It’s nice. Being here. It seems like it shouldn’t be, not after what they just went through, but this has always been their spot. Nothing dark ever reached this far into their private world. And it’s still that safe spot now. 

Eventually, the others start shucking clothes, and just like all those years ago, Beverly is the first one to jump over the cliff’s edge. Richie stays back with Eddie, who doesn’t even look the least bit disappointed not to be plummeting down into the water. His only response to their friends departure is to chuck his floppy hat onto the rocks. 

The air is filled with the peaceful sounds of nature that Richie hasn’t heard since moving to Chicago. He soaks them in, leaning back until his head bumps up against Eddie’s knee. In response, Eddie ruffles a hand through Richie’s overgrown hair. 

“Aren’t you a little old to still be wearing this style?” Eddie asks critically. “Are you trying to hide a bald spot or something? Is this your version of the Donald Trump comb over?”

Richie laughs, bright and happy. “I look hot, you don’t need to fight it, Eds.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie says lightly. His fingers keep tangling through Richie’s locks. Richie tries to think of it as simply soothing instead of the best thing that’s happened to him in twenty-seven years. 

The words burn at his lips again. The ones he couldn’t say to Bev. He presses his mouth into a thin line to keep them inside. 

“How long are we staying here, Richie?” Eddie asks quietly after a few minutes.

“We?” Richie muses.

“You and me - and the others,” Eddie tacks on, but it’s obviously an after thought. 

Richie warms all over from more than just the sun. “I mean. I threw up, walked on stage, froze, and got booed. So I’ve got nowhere I need to be for the foreseeable future. Pretty much back to square one over here.” 

“Good,” Eddie says resolutely. 

“Jesus, man!” Richie laughs. “I wasn’t that fucking bad, was I?”

“Write your own jokes, man. Do your stupid voices. Your stuff is shit because it’s not you.”

“Not so shitty, I mean, I did get full time stand up gigs,” Richie points out. 

“Mainstream bullshit,” Eddie disagrees. “The Richie I knew wouldn’t have settled for something that lame. You’re better than other people writing your jokes.” There’s this hint of pride in Eddie’s words and it’s got Richie blazing with the best feeling in the world. 

He’s smiling like he hasn’t in - well, twenty-seven years. He’s had friends since leaving Derry. But never like this. Never like the Losers. And never anyone close to Eddie. 

“Stop it, you’ll make me blush.”

Eddie flicks his ear. “Don’t ruin the moment, Trashmouth.” 

Richie turns his head so his cheek is pressed against Eddie’s bony knee. “Are we having a moment, Eds?” He flutters his eyelashes. 

This time, Eddie flicks the tip of his nose. 

“Ow! Shit, that hurt!”

Eddie looks pleased at this result. 

They lapse into comfortable silence. Eddie’s fingers keep moving through Richie’s hair. Their eyes trace over each other’s faces, taking in the changes and the underlying similarities to their childhood selves. 

“I, uh, I’ve missed you,” Richie says, his voice pitched low as if there is a possibility one of the other Losers could hear him. 

Eddie’s eyes blink closed and hold that way for a moment. When he opens them, he looks more serious than Richie can remember seeing him. “Me too, Richie, me too.” 

If there was ever a moment, it would be now. And yet. Richie’s secret stays locked behind his teeth, there at the tip of his tongue, but now allowed to escape. 

“Bev said,” Richie says instead, “she said she thinks this place, everything with Pennywise, leaving here, it made us weaker.”

Eddie lifts an eyebrow. “Explain?”

“I mean. It’s like with the sewers. You were never scared, Eddie. You were always so brave as a kid. You got in a fucking rock war. You, who worried about every scarp and bruise, but as soon as Beverly lobbed that first rock, you were splashing into the fucking creek and pitching rocks hand over fist at Bowers and his asshole friends.”

It’s another thing Riche hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since Eddie froze in the Neibolt house. Eddie has never been frozen by fear. He always stared danger in the face and stormed through it anyway. This ball of misplaced rage against all those germs he couldn’t fight because he couldn't see them. 

When Eddie doesn’t answer, Richie tips his head back to see if he’s still listening. He catches Eddie looking lost in thought, thoughts that don’t seem to make him particularly happy, if the furrow of his browline is anything to go by. His fingers still in Richie’s hair. 

“I wish - I wish I had remembered,” Eddie says eventually, words coming slowly, like he’s just realizing them as he says them aloud. “I think things would have been different, if I had remembered. Because after we moved, it just - it fell apart. Or maybe it just fell back together. I went back to being my mom’s little boy. The one with all the health issues and the never ending bottles of medication.” He shakes his head with disgust that Richie can't stand to see on him. 

“I didn’t remember standing up to her,” Eddie continues. “I didn’t remember yelling at her. I didn’t remember going into Neibolt with you after I had my arm broken. I didn’t remember facing down Pennywise, the leper, and getting puked on. That stuff faded and I was left this empty shell with all the insecurities I had before that summer.” 

Richie shifts back so he can turn and face Eddie. It’s funny, looking up at him from this angle. He rests his hand on Eddie’s knee. “Don’t beat yourself up. It wasn’t you that forgot, it was just this place and everything, it made it so we couldn’t remember and -“

“But if I had! Jesus, Richie, if I had, maybe I wouldn’t have married a woman that is the embodiment of my fucking mother. Maybe I wouldn’t have caged myself into the same barred walls I grew up with.” He gives Richie a desperate look.

“You remember now,” Richie emphasizes. “So you can change that, Eddie. You don’t - you don’t have to stay with Myra if that’s not what you want. You can be free.”

Eddie’s laugh gives Richie chills. “She’s not going to let me go. She’s an anchor and she’s going to pull me back just like my mom always did.”

“Eddie, no,” Richie says, covering Eddie’s hand with his. “You did not survive a knife to the cheek and a pincer to the stomach to be ball and chained by a marriage certificate.” 

“What would I do, Richie? Come on. Even if I did divorce Myra, I haven’t lived on my own ever. I have always lived with a woman who acted like my mother. I’m a risk analyst. I know the risks of striking out on my own. I’ll just find another Myra and anchor myself down all over again.” 

Richie shakes his head, grimacing. “No, fuck that, Eddie. This is not you. This is not Eddie of the Summer of 1989. I don’t care what happened between then and now, but, man. That was your summer. Yours.”

Eddie looks at him flatly. “Right. The summer I got vomited on by a fucking leper clown. The summer I broke my arm. The summer I learned and consequently forgot my mother was about six degrees of Kevin Bacon from munchenhausen-by-proxy.” 

“Eds,” Richie says, shocked. “You fucking spent half a day cleaning up demonic, definitely disgusting, blood from Beverly’s bathroom. Be honest, when was the last time you even put a bandage on somebody else for fear of their blood borne diseases?” Richie reaches up and rubs his hand over Eddie’s hair, messing it up. “You braved the spider infested hideaway sans shower cap. That took some real balls. None of the other Losers risked it with us.” 

Eddie bats Richie’s hand away, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, so what about you, Richie Tozier? What did Pennywise cost you? What did you forget that messed up your trajectory?” 

There are about thirty different cheap phrases Richie could go with right now. He could say, “I’m looking at it.” Or, “You.” Or, “The best friend I ever had.” Or go balls to the wall, “The person I loved most.” But that stuff. It’s just not Richie. 

He leans up on his knees, more or less face to face with Eddie. “I’ve got a secret, Eds. It’s twenty-seven years old, and the only fucker who knew it was apparently, Pennywise the motherfucking dancing clown.”

Eddie makes a face. “What the hell are you talking about, Richie?”

Richie shrugs. “You want to hear the secret or not, Kaspbrak?” 

Suddenly, Eddie pales more than his current normal of spilled milk. “Tell me you didn’t,” he says, voice hoarse. “Tell me you did not seriously fuck my mom!”

Richie falls backward, laughing so hard that he thinks he might actually bust a rib. Of all the things he imagined Eddie saying, it was never this. “Oh my god! Eddie! Jesus. No, I did not fuck your mother. But I did spend most of my summer thinking about fucking her son.”

“What - you - I don’t!” Eddie stumbles forward out of his chair, sort of crash landing next to Richie on the blanket. He grabs Richie by the shoulders, pushing him over so he can stare down at him. “What!”

“Whoa, Eds, you really do have small hands! How did I not notice this when we were arm wrestling? Those things are microscopic, like the ones in the Burger King -“ 

One of said small hands clamps down over his mouth, cutting Richie off before he can finish. “You do not say shit like that and then just start Trashmouthing off! You don’t! You go back and explain. So explain it to me, Richie. What secret were you keeping?”

There’s a buzzing in Richie’s ears, one that isn’t full panic, because Eddie hadn’t freaked out the way he could have. He could have freaked out, shouting at Richie that even the idea of Richie wanting him was repulsive. But he didn’t. 

So Richie takes Eddie’s honestly ridiculously small hand in his, and presses a soft kiss to the center of his palm. “I’m not married, Eddie, because I don’t like girls. I never have. But I have always liked one short, hypochondriac.” 

“Oh my god,” Eddie says in awe, his eyes the size of saucers. “Oh my god!” He blinks rapidly, his gaze shifting up to search the blue skies above them. Before Richie has time to worry that now Eddie is going to rip into him for being a freak, Eddie yanks Richie’s shoulders up until Richie has to prop himself on his elbows. “Say you won’t take it back!” 

“What?” Richie asks, caught off guard. “Take what back?”

“That you - I mean - Do you still?” There’s the soft edge of hope to Eddie’s voice. It honest to god fills Richie’s stomach with butterflies. 

Richie shifts all his weight to his left arm so he can reach up and cup the uninjured side of Eddie’s face. “I’ve been, like, embarrassingly in love with you since we were thirteen, Eds. I’m not going to take it back now. Even if you are married to Aunt Marge from Harry Potter.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie say without any heat. He blinks again, his obnoxiously adorable face dazed. “I - I don’t know what to say. Because I just - “ He sits back on the blanket and Richie’s hand slips off his cheek. 

Here it comes, finally, Richie thinks. The rejection that had always made him keep his secret safe behind his lips. Because Richie can handle almost anything, but getting rejected by Eddie, that might be the thing that finally breaks him. 

“I watched your shitty YouTube stand-ups for, like, three straight months. Months, Richie. Fucking months. I watched your stupid face and this just insane cynicism you had. And I hated your messy hair and your glasses are too fucking big. Who do you think you are? Fucking Buddy Holly? And you just - you’re so stupid and I -“

“Oh my god,” Richie says, starting to laugh. “Oh my fucking god. You love me too, you fucking asshole!”

“I - “ Eddie blinks down at him, fisting his hands in Richie’s t-shirt for a third time and leveraging him up so that their eye level. “I just - “ 

Richie doesn’t get to find out what Eddie just, because Eddie smashes his mouth gracelessly against Richie’s in the worst kiss Richie has ever had. Richie almost pops an instant boner. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Richie moves into the kiss, one hand cupping the back of Eddie’s neck, the other resting against the side of his face, running his thumb against the rough feel of Eddie’s unshaven cheek. 

“Shit!” Eddie says, abruptly pulling away and leaving Richie gaping like a fish. “I’m going to have to divorce Myra.” 

Richie starts laughing again, unable to believe this is really happening. “I mean, it’s up to you. But you know how I am about a can of Coke. I can’t even share half so, like, I don’t know what Myra’s going to think about me -“

“Shut up,” Eddie groans. “Oh my god, man. Don’t talk about my wife. My ex-wife. My nightmare. Oh my god.” He smashes his mouth back over Richie’s and Richie thinks this isn’t half bad if Eddie’s kissing style is to tell him off and then sneak attack. Richie can be down for it. Really fucking down. 

Richie’s just settling himself back into the kiss, working one hand down so he can trace his fingers up the knobs of Eddie’s spine when Eddie yanks away again. “Fuck! Chicago, right? You live in Chicago?”

“Uh, yeah?” Richie says, feeling like this moment is a rollercoaster he doesn’t want to get off of. 

“God, that’s like an sixteen hour drive,” Eddie muses frantically, his hands relaxing their hold on Richie’s shirt. 

“Oh, well, yeah, I guess.” Richie hadn’t thought of anything beyond this moment. There were no thoughts of a future where he and Eddie could be together for real. In the real world outside the bizarre bio-sphere that was Derry, Maine. “But, it’s fine,” he tries to assure Eddie. “I’ll just like, visit on weekends, or -“

“Do they even let you take moving trucks across state lines?” Eddie asks at the same time. 

They look at each other surprised. “What?” Richie asks, butterflies back for a second time. 

“New York is one of America’s smoggiest cities, Richie. With my asthma -“

“You don’t have asthma,” Richie says, a little giddy. 

“So obviously, Chicago would be better - and fuck you, I do too have asthma.” He glares at Richie. “But if you think I’m going to pack and drive that U-Haul myself -“

“Oh my god, Eddie. I will fucking pack that thing tonight if you want. My apartment is complete shit and you are going to hate it, and there is definitely mold in the bathroom that I haven’t scrubbed, and I never wash my dishes until they completely take over the sink, and -“

“Fuck,” Eddie groans like Richie is talking dirty to him. “I’m going to hate this so much. It’s going to be awful. I can’t fucking wait.” He tangles both hands in Richie’s hair and pulls him in for a smothering kiss. 

He’s kisses like their still bickering, light nips, quick touches of his tongue, and Richie is loving every second of it. Richie tips Eddie slowly backward until Eddie’s laid out beneath him, and Richie can bracket his hips with his legs. He kisses Eddie like he’s going to forget how to breathe if he stops. He kisses him in a way his childhood self could never have imagined. 

And maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better that they grew into themselves so they could see all the shitty stuff about themselves and get used to it. Because nobody’s going to be perfect, and everybody’s got a fuck ton of baggage they’re carrying around with them. But Eddie’s baggage is part of what Richie loves about him. And this, this is just more than Richie could ever have asked for. 

He eases back from Eddie’s lips, smiling stupidly down at him. “I fucking love you, Eds.”

Eddie blinks up at him, this dumb, giddy grin on his face. “I love you too, Trashmouth, even though you’re completely derailing my life. Only an asshole like you could do this. Completely destroy what I spent the last fifteen years putting together. God, you're the worst. The best kind of worst.” 

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. “The best kind of worst. You too, Eddie.”

“God, if thirteen year old me could see this, I’d be so fucking pissed. I was staring at Beverly’s white bra thinking I should be feeling something and, instead, all I could think about was how your stupid Coke bottle glasses had a smudge on them and I wanted to wipe it off so I could see your huge ass eyes clearly.”

Richie feels completely lit up inside. He presses his forehead against Eddie’s, closes his eyes, and just breathes him in. “I carved our initials into the kissing bridge that summer. I wanted this more than anything. I wanted you more than anything, you loser.”

“Then stop bitching and kiss me, because I’m about twenty minutes from a panic attack when it really sinks in that I’ve got to call Myra, tell her I want a divorce, that I’m moving states to live with my best friend from childhood, that I’m gay, and that I’m going to put a ring on it because I’ve already had to wait twenty-seven years to even kiss the jerk.” 

“All the single ladies!” Richie sings hideously offkey and utterly elated. Eddie gets a hand around the back of Richie’s neck and tugs him down hard, into another biting, sucking kiss.

Richie thought coming back to Derry would be the worst thing that ever happened to him. That he would die before ever getting to leave again. Instead, Richie thinks he’s learning what it feels like to live for the very first time. And that’s the fucking best thing Derry has ever done for him.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://blueeyeschina.tumblr.com)


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